Fallout
by ArtisticRainey
Summary: Michaelangelo discovers something disturbing. Prequel to Thresholds and Catharsis.


**Fallout**

_By ArtisticRainey_

The Carlmobile, as Michaelangelo affectionately called it, didn't quite take turns as well as he had hoped. It wasn't that the van refused to co-operate on bends. Rather, it simply refused to go around them on two wheels, which disappointed Mike every time. It didn't seem to matter how fast he drove. Donatello had clearly worked hard to make the vehicle Mikey-proof.

_I don't have the time to fix its suspension every evening_, Mikey had been unceremoniously told. _It's weighted so you can't destroy it so easily. I've got other things to worry about._ Mike deflated the giant turtle head on the roof of the van and backed it into the secret garage. Don was becoming more of an ass every day. The ignition chugged off abruptly and Mike withdrew the key. Yeah, Leo was gone. It wasn't like Don was the only one who missed him. And who asked him to step in as Leo-Mark-Two anyway? Some leader. Mike sighed. Some team.

He skated his way back to the lair without his usual oompf and tossed his board aside, hoping Master Splinter wasn't watching. The lack of berating told him that he wasn't and Mike crossed the short distance to the couch. He jumped over the back and flopped down heavily onto the cushions. He reached for the remote and switched on the many televisions and began surfing. Chat show, chat show, talent show, documentary, chat show…oh! Cartoons. He straightened his back a little and drummed his feet on the ground, grinning.

His television viewing didn't last uninterrupted for long.

"Mike, I'm still working here. I know you got off already, but I haven't. So turn it down already."

As quickly as he had swivelled his chair towards Mike, Don had turned away again. Mike parroted the words back, using his hands as a puppet.

"What's that you say Mister Hand? Don's starting to act like a major pain in the ass? You're right, little dude!"

He heard something crack in Don's vicinity, but the other turtle made no other acknowledgment of the comment. Mike shook his head – and his hand puppet – and slowly lowered the volume of the TVs. _Wish he'd just move all that tech support crap into his room already_, Mike thought as he rose to go hunting for snacks. _He spends most of his time in there anyway…_

The refrigerator bore few goodies, but did have the leftover bowl of chilli Michaelangelo had left for Don the night before. _Well, if he's not gonna eat it, I will! I make such a mean chilli_. Mike peeled off the film covering the bowl, and with it went the note he had attached to the top. It had read, _For Donnie. Eat me!_ That was, until it was crumpled up into a ball and tossed into the garbage. He placed the chilli into the microwave and set what he hoped was a vaguely correct time. The bowl immediately began spinning on the microwave plate.

"Please, sir, if you'll just calm down for one moment –"

Mike couldn't help but smirk a little. Yet another disgruntled customer. It served Don right considering he had started acting like a grade-A moron since the moment Leo had left – and had gotten even worse since they found out that Leo wasn't coming home when he should have been. Part of Mikey knew that the bad customers were probably a big part of Don's new sour attitude, but he didn't much want to give his brother excuses at that time.

The microwave pinged and Mike removed the bowl. He plunged a spoon into the chilli and took a generous mouthful. It was only half-warm. He set the microwave for another few minutes.

"_Please_, sir. If you'll just let me explain –"

Don's voice stopped short again, and Mike watched as his brother let his face drop into his hands. Apparently it was a really disgruntled customer. The microwave sounded again. This time, the chilli was perfect.

He flopped back down on the couch again and shovelled mouthful after mouthful of delicious food into his mouth. Unfortunately the cartoons had given way to the news, but that at least meant that it was six p.m. and Don would leave his workstation to retreat back to his room. Mike could watch TV in peace, until Master Splinter came in to watch his stories, that was. Secretly, however, Mike enjoyed watching them too, so it wasn't too big of a deal.

"All right. If that doesn't work, please don't hesitate to call me back in the morning. Okay, yes sir. Goodbye."

Mike turned to look over his shoulder as Donatello slammed his headset down with more force than usual, but he simply shrugged as his brother stormed out of the room. _Bet his customers still aren't as bad as mine…_ Mikey suppressed a shudder. _Damn kids…_

***

"All right, Braniac, bring it on!"

Michaelangelo looked up from his comic and frowned. Those words combined with that tone coming from that particular brother always lead to some kind of disaster. Mike lowered his eyes again and hummed loudly, but unfortunately it didn't make the ruckus disappear as he had hoped.

"What? You afraid of me of somethin'? Stand and fight, you jerk!"

Mike threw aside his comic with a sigh and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. _I'm getting tired of this, guys_, he thought as he rose to his feet and trotted back into the living area.

As expected, Raphael was looming over Donatello with his fists up and his face flaming. Mike could practically hear his brother's teeth grinding from across the room.

"I don't want to fight you, Raph," Don said with all the weariness of a ninety-year-old man.

"No, you just don't want to get physical. But you're happy enough flingin' insults and accusin' me of being a lazy bum!"

"I'm not accusing you of that," Don said, his eyes sparking suddenly. "I'm merely stating facts because that is exactly what you are!"

Raphael growled and Mike felt his throat close over a little. He could practically see Raph's muscles coiling with rage, as if his body was covered in a million tiny springs all winding tighter and waiting to be unleashed.

"I'm so sick of your bitching, Don," Raphael ground out. "You ain't got no right to talk to me like that! You ain't my mother!"

"I'm not trying to be!" Donatello said, throwing his arms up in the air. "I don't want to be your mother, and I don't want to be your leader, but someone has to take responsibility here –"

Mike watched the thrust and parry of the argument as if it were some twisted tennis match. His head snapped from one brother's face to the other.

"Well, news flash, dipshit!" Raph spat, and Michaelangelo winced. "I _am_ taking responsibility. I'm taking responsibility for myself and my training, which is somethin' you seem to be lacking in, lately! This city is fallin' apart and all you're doin' is sittin' on yer fat ass givin' advice to the assholes who may well be causin' all the problems!"

"I'm providing for this family!"

"Yeah? Well we got on fine before without you 'providing for us.'"

"We had Leo then, but now we don't! Things can't stay the same!"

"You might be right on that, but you are NO replacement for Leo. You're _nothing_ compared to him – not that we actually need him"

Mike's jaw dropped and he thought that if his eyes grew any wider they'd fall right out of their sockets. Raph hadn't just said that. He wouldn't, not even at his most furious. Donatello's lips parted, but snapped shut again.

"And if we don't need Leo," Raph said, drawing himself up to his full height, "we definitely don't need you. You're no brother to me. Not any more."

"Raphael!" Mikey said, suddenly launching back to life. "How could you, man?"

"Stay out of it, Mikey."

Donatello's jaw had become rigid. He assumed as nonchalant an expression as he could, but Mike could see his hands shaking.

"It's okay, Mike," he said, turning his back on Raphael. "I really don't care any more."

"Yeah, yeah," Raphael said. "You wouldn't."

Donatello walked away, and Michaelangelo thrust one finger in Raph's face.

"Dude! What is wrong with you? I know Don's been, like, majorly un-cool recently, but bro! That was harsh!"

"Not harsh enough," Raphael said, grunting. "Now get out of my face. I'm goin' out."

Mike watched helplessly as Raphael pushed past him and headed towards the lair's exit. He shook his head and watched as his brother slipped into the shadows.

***

"Don?"

Mike tapped his foot as he waited for a response. He had knocked on Donatello's door several times that evening, but not once had he received so much as a 'go away.' Michaelangelo brushed his knuckles against the door again and sighed. _It'd be nice of him to at least acknowledge me, even if he doesn't wanna talk_.

"Don? I'm comin' in, so I hope you're, like, decent."

Mike gently turned the handle and slowly opened the door. He glanced at his bed and blinked. It was empty.

"Aw, man! Don't tell me Don's gone and pulled a Raph!"

He let his arm drop and vaguely wondered if he should check under the bed or in the closet. It was stupid, but he would rather that was the case than if Don was out in the city alone. It wasn't that his brother couldn't handle himself. Far from it. Mike simply didn't want to have two AWOL brothers on his hands. One was always more than enough.

He huffed out a breath and closed the door again. _Should I go out and look? I dunno… Then _I'd_ be AWOL, and what would Splinter say? But if I don't go out and those two meet there's a serious chance that they'll tear each other apart._ Mike twisted his face in confusion and made a decision. Before making that choice, he would go to the bathroom. That, at least, was easy.

He crossed the short distance to the bathroom and opened the door without hesitation. He rolled his eyes and scratched the back of his head, but then stopped dead. Don was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, so he was at least accounted for. What made Mike's heart threaten to explode through his chest in a bloody mess was what Don was doing. His brother was staring at his own wrist. In his other hand, he held what looked like a newly-sharpened knife. It was poised to bite.

"Donnie? What the _fuck_?"

Mike flew across the room and snatched the knife from his brother's hand, throwing it aside. He knelt down in from of Don as he felt tears sting his eyes and his lungs implode. Don didn't move. His hand was still frozen as if holding the knife. His eyes were transfixed on his wrist.

Mike grabbed Don's arm and stared at the skin. It was unbroken, but there were very faint lines running up towards his brother's elbow, only deep enough to scratch one thin layer of skin. He rubbed one finger over them and felt tears flow unabashed over his cheeks and down onto his plastron.

"Donnie?" He gulped against the hitch in his voice. He flailed for words. "Don…_what_ the _fuck_?"

Donatello closed his eyes and let his hand relax, pulling his fingers into his palm. Mike's breath caught in his throat and he forced his hands into Don's, squeezing them like vices.

"Don, talk to me! You're scarin' me so much bro!"

A single tear fell down from one of Don's eyes, and he began to shake his head. Mike squeezed harder.

"Don, please! _Please_! What is goin' on in that head of yours?"

At length, Don opened his eyes again, but kept his gaze firmly lowered.

"Mike," he whispered, but the rest of the sentence was lost.

Michaelangelo pushed his face closer to Don's.

"What? I couldn't hear you, bro."

Don gulped heavily, and tears to rival Mike's began to wash over his face.

"Mike, I…"

"What, Donnie, what? Please!"

"I'm…sick."

There was a beat of silence, and Michaelangelo was torn between laughing hysterically and slapping Don in the face. He did neither.

"Well, like…"

Words failed him.

"I can't… I can't cope anymore. It's… There's nothing…"

Mike did the only thing he could think of doing and wrapped his arms around his brother's shoulders. Don's arms fell rigid at his sides. Then, with a shudder, he began to sob.

The sound ripped right through to Mike's spine and he found himself whimpering in pain. Actual, physical pain.

"Don… Why? Why didn't you talk to me?"

All of the annoyance, all of the rolling eyes and rude gestures behind his brother's back came flooding into Mike's mind like poison. All of the times he had let his brother retreat to his room, thinking he was simply being antisocial…when this was underlying, creeping like dying vines to encircle Donatello's very mind. His strong, intelligent mind. _Don is supposed to be strong. Stronger than all of us in the head-department. Just…why?_ His question remained unanswered for what seemed like hours, until finally Don's shoulders had slowed to a slight tremor.

"I couldn't… I just…couldn't."

"Is this…" Mike swallowed against the words, but they needed to be said. "Have you ever…done this before?"

"No," Don said, his voice falling to barely above a whisper.

"Please," Mike said, "make it the last time."

Don nodded into Michaelangelo's shoulder and shuddered. Mike felt a wave of rage crash into his sea of sorrow.

"Is this because of Raph? That jackass… I'm going to kick his shell from here to Chicago and back for this –"

"NO."

Mike pulled out of the hug. His eyes were definitely going to fall out of his head.

"No? _No_? Dude, if he's making you feel like this –"

"It's not as simple as that, Mike," Don said, dropping his gaze again. "I think… I think I have depression. Raph certainly doesn't help, but it's not his fault."

Mike tensed his shoulders up as he struggled for a word, _any_ word, that would make things better. _I wish Leo were here. He'd know._

Don turned his face upwards to look at his brother. Mike almost had to look away from the sheer pain that was flowing over Don's face.

"Please don't say anything."

Mike was transported back for a split second into their past. A round-eyed Donatello was staring at him, holding pieces of a smashed plate in his tiny hands. _Please don't say anything_…

Mike snapped back to reality when Don's face fell and he began to sob again.

"No, dude, I promise I won't open my mouth! Not… Not even to Master Splinter!"

Don buried his face in his hands and shuddered.

"I need your help, Mike. I…don't think I can survive on my own any more."

"You don't have to," Mike said. As he did, he placed one hand on Don's shoulder. "You never had to."

Don uncovered his eyes but placed his hands over his mouth. Mike squeezed his brother's shoulder.

"I guess you didn't think you could say anything. Well, you don't need to worry about that anymore. I'll… I'll do everything I can for you, bro. I promise. Even if it just means keeping my massive pie-hole shut."

Mike's comment hit its target; Donatello couldn't help but smile.

"Thanks, Mike," he said. He let the smile slip off his face, but only briefly. "Can I ask you something, Mike?"

"Of course. Anything bro!"

Mike sat a little further forward and tried to look as knowledgeable and understanding as possible while he waited for the question.

"Could you…could you make me some soup? I'm really hungry."

Mike ran over the sentence in his head a few times before he was sure he heard it right, before he grinned widely and slapped his brother on the shoulder.

"Sure! It'd be my pleasure!"

Mike stood and held out a hand for Donatello, who took it gratefully. Mike's heart tried to escape again as Don reached for the discarded knife. In a split second he thought that his brother's life was going to come to an abrupt halt. Don picked the knife up, and suddenly threw it at the wall. The tip embedded itself into the stone. Mike felt oxygen flow back into his blood, and he reached out for the hand that the knife had just vacated.

"You want chicken? Maybe minestrone? Ooh, how about tomato and basil. I've got the recipe just right now. There's supposed to be a lot more tomato and a lot less basil."

"Whatever you think is best," Don said, allowing his hand to be taken. "Whatever you think is best."


End file.
